


In Darkness

by slythwolf



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slythwolf/pseuds/slythwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here in the high, cold places of the world, the Light does not reach us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Darkness

Minn'da,

Ink and parchment can no longer hold meaning for you, yet I am compelled to write; the hope lives in me still that my words will somehow find you, and that it is bright where you are.

It is dark here. Here in the high, cold places of the world, the Light does not reach us. I know not how many days it has been since the Sun touched my face. I fear I may never feel its warmth again.

I am encamped with the men and women of the Ashen Verdict at the foot of the Citadel. The colourful pageantry of the Tournament has at last given way to the grim reality of our plight against the one who once bound me. With each day that passes more of our number fall, and each fallen comrade swells the ranks of the Scourge. Despair kindles in the secret places of my unbeating heart, warring with hope and seeking to drown out the latter's shining presence in me. It is hope that I cling to, hope alone that sustains me in this desolate place; I have brothers- and sisters-in-arms, but no friend, no lover has followed me here, nor waits for me in the dubious sanctuary of Dalaran, so close--I can yet make out its towering spires beyond the shadow that has fallen here--and yet it seems a lifetime away. Before I came here, I was in Dalaran. The Sun still shines there.

I am alone.

It is dark here and I cannot tell whether it is day or night. The time passes but I cannot measure it. It is like the stillness of the grave, before he woke me: dark, featureless, a stretch of unbroken time with little meaning. At least that is how I imagine it; I remember nothing between the moment of my death and the time when my eyes opened on the world again. Perhaps I was with you. Perhaps it was bright there. Perhaps he ripped me out of that place and cast me into darkness.

Perhaps I will never escape it.

I write to you, minn'da, on the eve of battle. To-morrow--or what we call to-morrow; after we have rested--twenty-five of us will enter the Citadel and make our way to the Frozen Throne, there to defeat him or be defeated. When I wake I will arm myself and follow our leader there, to whatever end. The others are gathered around the fire for warmth, and their talk, however subdued, seems to hearten them. I am alone; I do not need the heat of the flames to warm my unliving flesh. I sit apart from them, my only comfort stemming from my thoughts of you, though they bring me grief also. I am two hundred seventeen years old but there are times when not only children have need of their mothers.

I hope it is bright where you are. It is dark here. I am alone, and I miss you. I do not pray that we will succeed. If there were any gods inclined to hear that prayer, they would have heard it long before now.

With all my love, your daughter,  
Ortaine Dawntreader

 

 _"Pick it up."_

 _The King's eldritch voice echoes through the frozen halls of his Citadel. The death knight's cold grey fingers close on the edge of the parchment and she lifts it, all but unseeing, to hold it before her in a numb and lifeless grasp._

 _The King points with one heavy gauntlet at the fire his minions have kindled in a brazier for this purpose._

 _"Burn it."_

 _As her uncaring feet take her closer to the flames, in the death knight's mind she is screaming, screaming, fighting to slow her steady steps. She is struggling not to move her arm as it reaches out, struggling to keep her fingers tight on the parchment as they open and let it fall._

 _Her hand drops to her side. The parchment curls in on itself as the edges take the fire, and she fights to tear her eyes away but she fails._

 _She fights to blink as the flames consume it, but she cannot, and as the parchment begins to crumble into ash she cannot help but make out the words: "I hope it is bright where you are."_

 _The flames flicker and die. There before his throne the King's laughter rings out, and as the last of the coals dim, the only light the death knight can see is the blue glow of his eyes as she is plunged once more into darkness._

 _She kneels. There is no way out: she will serve her master once more._


End file.
